Rose and Thorn
by sophie-the-duchess
Summary: No one knows for sure what happened at the old Arendelle Estate after the untimely deaths of the Baron and Baroness. Some say their two daughters killed themselves out of grief, and that their spirits still haunt the grounds. Others claim that they still live there, and that the eldest is a witch. Only Kristoff will learn the truth. (Gothic Victorian AU, Kristanna, Villain!Elsa)
1. Chapter 1

_There is no rose without a thorn._

 _French Proverb_

–

 _Arendelle Estate, England, 1873_

The summer air was hot and thick with the promise of a coming storm. Kristoff didn't mind, though, as his tiny fingers found purchase on a crevice in the stone, too engrossed in his mission to care about much else.

He scaled the wall surrounding the estate with difficulty, slipping once or twice before catching himself, narrowly avoiding a nasty fall to the ground. His tongue was pinched precariously, torturously between his teeth as he focused on the task at hand; he was nearly to the top now, more and more of the estate coming into view each time he hoisted himself up further. The higher he went, the easier it got; luckily, the spaces between the bricks were just wide enough to accommodate his small feet, allowing him more leverage than a grown adult would have had.

Upon reaching the top, he took a moment to catch his bearings; the towering mansion of the estate loomed nearby, casting a long shadow over the property. In the distance, hazy gray clouds crawled over the horizon, threatening rain and worse. But he had time yet.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the wall, Kristoff braced himself and pushed off, allowing himself to freefall to the grass below. He landed with a _thud_ and rolled clumsily to the side in an attempt to soften his impact., but somehow he still landed face-down and spread eagle, his already filthy clothes mussed even further and now covered in bits of grass and soil.

If his parents knew what he was up to, and saw how badly he had dirtied and tattered his britches, they would be cross with him. Even his golden hair was nearly black from filth.

But he didn't have any parents, and the young boy wasn't sure if he ever had, and so none of it mattered anyway.

He stood up and found himself in a luscious garden, surrounded on all sides by flowering bushes twice as tall as himself; it was a dizzying myriad of colors and blooms and fragrances, some of which he could even identify, such as the blue hydrangeas, white rhododendrons, pink azaleas, and red roses. He couldn't ever remember seeing a place so beautiful. Like Heaven on Earth.

But there was no food. Not a single fruit or vegetable in sight. Not even a patch of wild chives for him to chew on to try to sate his hunger. He looked around again to be sure, his round amber eyes glancing this way and that, but it was of no use; there was nothing edible at all in the entire garden. His stomach grumbled at the disappointing realization.

It was then, when Kristoff turned back towards the wall to contemplate his next move, that he was startled by a small voice from behind him.

"Hello."

He whipped around to face the owner of the voice. Upon coming face-to-face with a young, rosy-cheeked girl, a little younger than himself, he let out a frightened squeak and jumped backwards. The girl appeared unfazed.

"Who _are_ _you?_ " she asked in a high-pitched voice that was neither accusatory nor demanding, but simply curious, in that inquisitive way that children ask things. Her fingers played with the end of an auburn braid and her blue eyes sparkled as she scanned the boy up and down. "And why are you so dirty? Did you just come from over the wall?"

She sniffed the air a bit and scrunched her nose.

"You smell bad."

Kristoff frowned. "I do not."

She leaned closer to him, and he recoiled as far from her as he possibly could, pressing his back against the garden wall. She seemed to be sizing him up, her eyes darting from his coal-streaked nose to a tear in the shoulder of his blouse, all the way down to his scuffed leather shoes that were two sizes too small and had started to come apart at the seams.

She opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the audible rumbling of his stomach, and clamped her mouth shut. Kristoff's face flushed with embarrassment, but she didn't notice. Rather, she straightened up, and after a brief moment of contemplation, looked directly into his brown eyes with her blues.

"Are you hungry?" She held out a petite freckled hand. "Here, come with me."

When Kristoff hesitated, eyeing her hand as though it were a snake that would lash out and poison him with its fangs, the girl scoffed.

"I won't bite."

Reluctantly, he put his hand in hers and allowed himself to be dragged past a line of shrubs and around the corner. He was surprised to see that the garden opened into a wide grassy area, where the lord and lady of the estate probably held their afternoon teas and luncheons. Currently, it was devoid of any furnishings, save for a child-sized easel set before a wooden chair. The girl must have been painting before his unexpected presence disturbed her.

She led him to the chair and gestured for him to sit upon it. He did so, watching her nervously.

"Wait here," she instructed, holding out both hands palms-forward to emphasize her point. When Kristoff nodded that he understood, she turned and ran, disappearing from view.

The sky darkened gradually around him as he waited, the dark storm clouds rolling in until they were directly overhead, casting everything in dim gray. The girl was taking too long. It made Kristoff begin to feel paranoid, and he worried that she had gone off to tell her parents about the filthy orphan boy who was trespassing on their property, or to fetch a constable to come arrest him. He decided that he wasn't going to stick around to find out which one it was.

He was about to leave, and braced his hand on the back of the chair to stand, when he saw the girl returning from the corner of his eye, carrying a wicker picnic basket that was almost as big as she was.

"I didn't know what you like, so I grabbed everything I could," she huffed, out of breath from the effort of carrying the heavy basket. She dropped it on the grass in front of him and propped open the lid.

Kristoff's mouth dropped open at the sight of the inside; a variety of multicolored cheeses and smoked meats, nestled amongst waxy purple grapes and juicy green pears, filled the basket. Just beneath the delicacies, Kristoff could make out the golden, pillowy edges of at least a dozen different kinds of breads.

When Kristoff didn't attack the basket immediately, the girl smoothed out the front of her lacy butter-colored dress before she put her hands on her hips and beamed at him, proudly.

"Go ahead," she insisted. "It's all for you!"

Kristoff gulped. "Won't your parents wonder what happened to all of this food when they find out its missing?"

He knew what is was like to be reprimanded for stealing food; it wasn't a pleasant experience.

The girl only shrugged, unperturbed. "I'll just tell them I got hungry for a snack."

He wasn't convinced, but the pain in his abdomen left him with no other choice. With no preference to what he ate first, he stuck both grubby hands into the basket and grabbed as much food as he could in two fistfuls, shoveling it into his mouth with vigor.

It took Kristoff a few minutes to realize that the girl was watching him, clearly amused, and he sheepishly swallowed his mouthful of food, wincing when it was too much for his throat. He was being rude.

"I, uhh… I like your painting," he offered between bites of a baguette, nodding with his head towards the half-finished landscape on the canvas beside him. "I haven't seen very much art before, but you seem quite good."

The red-haired girl did a slight curtsy. "Thank you. Flowers are my favorite subject."

"They're pretty," Kristoff agreed, but the words were muffled by a mouthful of sharp cheddar. The girl giggled, and smiled wider at him, but then her face fell.

"Where are your parents?" she asked him quietly.

He cast his eyes downward. "I don't have any."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She stuck a toe in the dirt. Kristoff couldn't help but notice how shiny and new her shoes looked.

As if on cue, the awkwardness between them was cut by a voice shouting in the distance, from the direction of the mansion.

"Anna!"

It was a woman's voice, and the motherly sound of it caused Kristoff's fear of punishment to return.

"Oh," the girl bemoaned, her hands flying to her face. "I have to go!"

" _Anna!_ " the voice called again, louder this time.

She leaned forward into him and cupped a hand to his ear.

"Next time, use the gate," she whispered into the alcove created by her palm, as though what she was saying was some great secret that was only to be shared between the two of them. With a giggle, she quickly bent down to grab the picnic basket before she spun on her heel and bounced in the direction of the house, her red hair bobbing farther and farther until she was out of Kristoff's line of sight, lost amongst the rows of carefully manicured rose bushes.

The young boy turned to his right just as the rain began to fall; sure enough, the wrought iron gate leading in and out of the garden was there, negating any need to climb the wall. He had missed it in his survey of the estate.

But there would never be a next time. He'd never dare to return to this place after being caught once already.

Thunder roared and the sky sparked with white light; Kristoff spared no time in booking it to the gate, eager to leave before he found himself caught in the full force of the storm.

He thought about her for sometime after their encounter, but as the years went by and Kristoff grew older, the girl in the gardens was forgotten.

–

 **A/N: Based on a prompt by minnothebunny ( kristanna on tumblr) about a Gothic period Kristanna where Elsa is a real villain. Let the story commence!**


	2. Chapter 2

_And the weeds in the ground have grown up through my skin_

 _It's taking a lonesome girl's heart_

 _I will go where the stolen roses grow_

 _To forget that I have fell apart_

 _Karen Elson, "Stolen Roses"_

–

 _The township of Warminster, Wiltshire, England, 1884_

"A little to the left."

Hefting with both hands, the tall man moved the wooden crate further down the shelf.

"Knock it right."

He slid it back the other way.

"Perfect!"

Coming down from the step ladder, Kristoff turned to give the man who had been instructing him a look of annoyance, as he brushed the grain dust from his hands on the front of his canvas clerk's smock.

"Now, Sven," the blond man started, crossing his arms. "What was the point of all that if it's just back where it started?"

Sven scoffed and gestured towards the shelf behind his brother with an open palm. "What are you on about, Kristoff? Just look at how much more space there is now!"

Kristoff twisted his head to glance back at the shelf from over his shoulder and shrugged, arms still crossed.

"I don't see much of a difference."

"Are you still cross with me for stealing the Smith girl away from you?" Sven put both hands on his hips. "Is that what this is about?"

It was times like these that Kristoff vaguely wondered whether or not it was even possible that himself and Sven could be related by blood. They had been together for as long as Kristoff could remember, ever since they were two foundling lads scrapping and struggling to survive on the streets, but where Sven was lean with chestnut curls and a sharp bone structure, Kristoff was burly and muscular without too much definition, and his thick, golden-wheat hair was held in place away from his face by the woollen pageboy cap he wore. The only similarity between them was that they happened to share the same honey-brown eye color, which very well may have been an coincidence. They weren't sure of their relation to one another and, unless their birth parents magically appeared someday, they'd never know for sure.

Kristoff laughed– a hearty, booming laugh– and shook his head. "No, no, _no_. Absolutely not. Besides, I never had any interest in the Smith girl to begin with."

The blond man tapped the forehead of the shorter brunette with his fingertip. "That was _all in your head._ "

Sven harrumphed and shot his older brother a sly smile, the corners of his mouth curving up mischievously. "Good, because she told me that she never had any interest in you, either."

Kristoff rolled his eyes and spun on his heel, towards the front of the shop, but was stopped by the bulky figure of his father standing in the doorway.

Cliff Bjorgman was a rotund man– and shorter than Kristoff by at least a head– who wore crisp, tailored suits and spoke with a hint of a Scandinavian accent, his only remnant of the old country. His hair had started to gray with age but he slicked it back with dark pomade, and in all the years that Kristoff had known his adoptive father, he had never seen him without a freshly shaven face.

"Boys, I want less talking and more _stocking,_ " he scolded as he entered the room. "We've got a load of hay and feed that's gonna be here first thing on the morrow, and we need to be sure we have enough room in here to store it before it arrives."

"Yes, sir," the pair of younger men answered in unison.

It was then that Kristoff noticed the concentrated bundle of red roses in his father's arms– their bright, blood-pigmented petals contrasting starkly against Cliff's white silk cravat– at the precise moment that their potent fragrance hit Kristoff's nose, making his skin tingle. He tipped his chin towards the arrangement.

"What are those for?"

Cliff glanced down, as though he had forgotten what he was carrying. "Oh, these? Old Miss Brigham dropped them off for your mother. Clipped them from her own garden, she did."

A vision of a beautiful estate flashed across Kristoff's mind, and a garden full of fragrant flowers sprawling towards the stormy horizon, but he couldn't be sure if he had ever visited such a place or if he was just imagining things.

He could recall a garden full of flowers… and a girl amongst the blooms, painting them.

"Never seen roses before, boy?" Cliff admonished. "What's the matter with you?"

His voice cut through the fog of the blonde man's reverie as he lost himself in the vision and tried to process it; he could see a young girl in his mind's eye, with red-gold hair, dressed in yellow, bouncing amongst the rose bushes. But the closer he tried to peer at the memory, the more it slipped from his grasp, like trying to hold water.

Kristoff squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to clear it; the flowers behind his eyelids gradually faded into blackness, along with the head of coppery hair. As quickly as the vision had come, it vanished.

"N-nothing's the matter," he stammered. "I'm fine."

Sven snorted from beside him. "You sure? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

It was true; when Kristoff uncrossed his arms at last and glanced at his hands, the skin had paled and his fingers shook. The memory was gone, but the feeling– a strange feeling, like the tips of phantom feathers tickling the hairs on the back of his neck– remained. It had shaken him more than he thought; if he admitted it to himself, he did feel a touch faint.

He stuck his hands in his apron pockets to hide them.

Cliff narrowed his eyes at his son in concern. "Why don't you go head home early and help your mother with supper?"

After a moment, Kristoff nodded his obligation; he was swaying on his feet a bit, and he wouldn't be of much help around the store in such a condition. It was nearly the end of the work day, anyway.

"Yes, sir."

"Sven," Cliff started, suddenly remembering his reason for entering the stockroom as he turned his attention to the smaller man and ticked his head in the direction of the shop floor. "Order's in."

 _Order's in._

Kristoff knew what that meant: every week, a mysterious benefactor who only went by the initial "E" would send in a note, along with a handsome amount of cash, to Bjorgman's Store. It was always a grocery list, with no instructions or pleasantries; simply a list of items, simply signed "E."

Every week was the same list, with minor variations: one loaf of French bread, one half wheel of Cheddar cheese, four cuts of bacon, six eggs, eight potatoes, one large carrot, two small turnips, one pound of beef, one pound of mutton, one bushel of apples, two pints of milk, twelve ounces each of oatmeal and rice, ten ounces each of sugar, loose tea, and jam.

Occasionally the list would include requests for bits of chocolate, spices, or foreign delicacies, but those requests were few and far in between. More often than not, the special requests would come in the form of non-food items, such as bolts of fabric or sewing needles.

Every week, upon receipt of the note, Sven would package up the order and take off to deliver the goods to their destination while Kristoff watched the store; wherever the destination, however, Kristoff hadn't the slightest idea. Neither Sven nor Cliff ever discussed it at length in his presence, relying only on the briefest of acknowledging statements to indicate that it was time again: " _Order's in._ "

Kristoff didn't know any more than that, and he didn't bother enough to ask. Routine deliveries weren't uncommon for the business by any stretch. The only thing noteworthy about this one was the anonymity of it, but Kristoff assumed the patron had their reasons for that.

Without hesitation at his father's command, Sven jogged out of the stockroom, disappearing around the corner. Kristoff, in turn, reached behind himself to untie his smock, pulling it over his head and throwing it over the crook of his elbow.

"Kristoff," Cliff started again. "Take the roses with you so that your mother can put them in water."

Kristoff blinked at the bouquet as it was held up to him, having completely forgotten it existed, before recovering and reaching out to take the blooms from his father.

"Yes, sir."

–

The Bjorgman family home was a mid-sized manor on the outskirts of town, where it sat on a few acres alongside the road. Although they were technically the richest family in town– thanks to Cliff's proprietorship– the Bjorgmans still only made a modest living by most standards, allowing for a comfortable lifestyle where one needn't ever pine for the necessities, along with the ability to afford a few luxuries here and there. They were wealthy, but they weren't nearly as wealthy as the highborns of British society; they were self-made.

Although it was standard practice for wealthy families, even merchant families with new money like the Bjorgmans, to have a staff of household servants under their employ, Bulda Bjorgman refused any help in maintaining her home– except for a single maid, whom Kristoff had only convinced her to hire after Grand Pabbie's health had failed one too many times. Yet, she lived off of the property, and was usually dismissed after dinner, despite the fact that she was still paid full days' wages.

Kristoff returned home to find Bulda and the maid, Gerda, in the kitchen, prepping a bushel of turnips and potatoes for beef stew. He removed his cap, gloves, and day coat before entering the room, hanging them on a peg on the wall by the door; although it was nearly summertime, the air still had a residual springtime nip to it, requiring the proper layers to be worn.

" _Kristoff,_ " the plump, blonde-haired woman cooed in a sing-song upon seeing her adopted son. "You're home early."

Despite the fact that she worked around the house nonstop, without so much as a governess to assist her, Bulda still always wore her fine clothes, even when chopping vegetables. Her silvery-blonde hair was curled and pinned atop her head in a fanciful updo, and adorned with silk flowers. Her dress– the lacy, scalloped neckline of which revealed an inappropriate amount of spotted cleavage– puffed at the shoulders and narrowed slightly at the waist, before fanning out in a broad skirt, the spring green and yellow layers of which were hoisted up by a crinoline and bustle. She looked more ready to attend a party than to cook supper for her family.

"Hello, mum." Kristoff leaned down to greet his mother with a kiss on the cheek; she was even shorter than her husband was, but had the same accent when she spoke. When she noticed the bundle of flowers in her son's arms, Bulda gasped.

"Those are _lovely,_ " she crooned, pausing her work to sniff at the blossoms. "Where did they come from?"

"Miss Brigham. I was going to put them in water for you."

"Allow me."

Kristoff allowed his mother to take the bouquet from his arms, and she worked quickly to procure a porcelain vase of water in which to put them. When she was finished, she set them on a wooden bistro table in the corner of the room, before returning to her station beside Gerda, who was already piling her minced turnips into a bowl.

Bulda picked up her knife and began dicing once more. "How was the shop today?"

"Papa had us hauling sacks of grain all over the place. I'm knackered." Kristoff meandered over to the pot as it simmered over the fire, giving it a good stir with the wooden ladle hanging beside it. The smell of brown gravy wafted up to greet him and his mouth began to salivate.

"Why's your brother not come home yet?"

"I don't know and I don't give a fig."

"Kristoff!" Bulda snapped, appalled by her son's foul mouth.

"Sorry," he apologized, rubbing a hand over his hair sheepishly, shaking out the strands with his fanned fingers and then smoothing them down again with his open palm. "Been with Sven in the stockroom all day. Forgot to mind my language."

Bulda shot her son one final, stern glare before going back to dicing potatoes. He moved to the corner table and sat down in one of the wrought-iron chairs, stealing a look at the red roses in front of him; there must have been a dozen of them or more. Poor Miss Brigham must have sacrificed an entire bush for such a stunning bouquet. The phantom tickling returned to the back of Kristoff's neck and he averted his gaze, choosing instead to face towards the window. His mind wandered to Sven, and where he could possibly be at the moment. Probably still delivering for E.

After a minute of silence, save for the sounds of slicing vegetables, Kristoff's curiosity got the better of him and he spoke up.

"Mum, where does Sven go when he delivers for Mr. E?"

If Bulda's hand momentarily halted the knife mid-slice at his question, it was nearly imperceptible before she continued with the cut. But Kristoff noticed, and he cocked his head at the odd response to a seemingly innocent question.

"Sounds like your father's business," Bulda deflected, keeping her eyes trained on the potatoes on the counter in front of her as she scooped them into a bowl. "You'd be best off asking him."

Kristoff hummed, disappointed but not surprised by her flippant answer, deciding not to press it further. He gazed out of the window, towards the dying light on the horizon where the hazy storm clouds gathered, as the fragrance of roses continued to overpower the smell of the stew, tantalizing his senses to no end.

–

 **A/N: I changed the decade to better match the fashion style of the story, sorry! The previous chapter now takes place in 1873.**


	3. Chapter 3

The brass bell above the shop door tinkled, announcing the arrival of a visitor.

Sven had fallen ill and so hadn't come into work that day, leaving Kristoff alone to man the shop as the sole clerk. It hadn't been a particularly busy day, most likely due to the summer storm that appeared to be making its way into town; the mass of dark clouds overhead promised rain, and it seemed that no one in Warminster was keen to be caught in a surprise, sudden downpour. But Kristoff was fine with the temporary reprieve; he preferred the peace.

He glanced up from his spot behind the counter, where he was polishing apothecary bottles of smelling salts with a cloth, to see his father enter, red-faced and sweating profusely.

"Order's in," Cliff blurted in a panic, foregoing an actual greeting; his eyes were wide and the severity of his tone caused a chill to run down Kristoff's spine.

"Order's in."

He repeated the statement like a prayer as he marched towards the counter, holding out the note in front of him; although it was folded, Kristoff could just make out the cursive "E" signed at the bottom of the inside page.

"Order's in, and Sven's not here. Bloody hell."

Although it was impolite, Kristoff shrugged.

"I could take it," he offered.

Cliff paused and considered for a moment, sizing his son up from the corner of his eye before sighing.

"I suppose I have no other choice," he grumbled, rounding the corner of the clerk's counter and sidling up to Kristoff. "Now, listen to what I tell you, and listen _carefully,_ boy."

Kristoff set his cloth to the side with the bottles and focused his attention visibly on his father. Cliff unfolded the note and placed it on the counter, smoothing it out with the heel of his hand to flatten it.

"Gather the items listed here, nothing more and nothing less," he explained in a stern voice as he jabbed the tip of his finger against the parchment. "They've already been paid for. Package them up and load them onto the cart out back. The location isn't far, but it isn't close enough to carry."

When he looked up, Kristoff nodded to assure him that he understood. Cliff cleared his throat before continuing.

"Go up to the door and knock _once_." Cliff held up a single index finger to emphasize his point. "If no one answers, leave the items on the step and go. Do _not_ wander anywhere else, you hear me?"

Kristoff nodded again, more cautiously this time; the severity of his father's tone was off putting.

The patriarch of the Bjorgman family nodded in return, lifting the paper up from the counter and folding it carefully, as though it might shatter, before handing it to Kristoff.

"When you're done, come straight back to the store. I need you here for the ice shipment at three o'clock.

"Yes, sir." He gave the note a once over, committing the list to memory before he slipped it into his breast pocket.

"Take the cart. And be back by three."

"Right, but where am I going?" Kristoff raised an eyebrow.

Cliff paused, and his son could pick up on the subtle way he hesitated to say the words.

"To the Arendelle Estate."

–

The sky above was overcast and gray when the towering, decrepit mansion of the Arendelle Estate finally slithered into view. Kristoff paused at the bottom of the hill, bending to lower the cart handles gently to the ground, and allowed his eyes to trail over the estate, taking it in.

As he gazed up at the menacing spires and darkened windows, a feeling of foreboding washed over him. The property was overgrown and unmaintained; the long, tall grasses around Kristoff reached nearly to the hem of his waistcoat, and the footpath that may have once led to the front door was run over with weeds. The manor itself– probably once a pinnacle of architectural innovation, social status, and wealth– was in desperate need of repair; even from afar, the wood appeared rotted and mossy, and the brownstone had begun to chip from years of battling the elements. The porch was buckling and the window pane at the top of the largest tower spiderwebbed with cracks, as though somebody had taken their fist to it.

The more he observed, the more it seemed like absolute madness that anyone could live here. It made him feel silly to be delivering groceries to such a home; yet, he couldn't push away the feeling that had begun to seep into his bones– the feeling that he had been here before, as though he had visited once in a dream.

Somehow, there was an unnerving familiarity about this place that both piqued Kristoff's curiosity and urged him to run far, _far_ away. Regardless, Kristoff hoisted the carefully packaged groceries into his arms and carried them up the path and to the front porch.

The weary wooden planks creaked beneath his weight as he made his way up the steps and to the door, which was intricately carved from varnished maple and inlaid with dusty stained glass. No sounds emerged from within the house, and the land surrounding the property was just as eerily quiet; not even a bird chirped in the trees at the edge of the estate. It put Kristoff on edge.

Not wanting to stay any longer than necessary, Kristoff carefully arranged the items on the stoop and rapped his knuckles against the door. He didn't expect anyone to answer and, when no one did, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and spun on his heel to leave.

It was then, as he stepped off the porch and into the grass, that he heard the whine of a door opening behind him.

Stunned, he turned, ready to face whoever had come out of the manor, only to see the door still closed as he had left it, the groceries untouched.

 _Now I'm hearing things,_ he thought. _If I stay here any longer I'll surely go mad._

Once again, he heard the whine. It wasn't coming from the front door; when Kristoff looked to the side of the home, he could see a wrought-iron gate to the gardens that had been left unlocked, and as it opened and closed slowly in the breeze its old, rusty hinges whined each time from the effort.

The gate.

 _Next time, use the gate._

Kristoff whipped around; he swore he heard a girl's voice, but he was alone in the yard.

At the very least, he figured he should lock the gate. After all, who knows how long it had been left open.

Kristoff made his way to the gate to close it; when he reached it, he noticed that the old lock had rusted away. It deteriorated beneath his fingertips when he touched it to inspect the extent of the damage, small sheets of orange flaking off and falling to the ground like microscopic autumn leaves. He looked up, beyond the gate towards the garden, and could see the walls of dry, browned shrubs, stretching on in wild rows towards the back of the property, untended.

Surely nobody lived at the estate, and leaving groceries at an abandoned house seemed like a terrible waste to the former orphan. Perhaps if there was a window on the ground level that he could look through in the back of the house, he could confirm that the house was indeed unoccupied, and he could go back to the shop and tell his father so. Then, they could stop wasting their time and resources on such silly deliveries; he was convinced that whoever paid for them weekly must have been playing some sort of odd prank on the Bjorgman men.

Determined, Kristoff crossed through the gate, leaving it open and swinging behind him.

He walked between the rows of what he assumed were once rose bushes, the quiet crunch of crisp, dead twigs sounding from beneath his feet with each step. To his right side, the manor loomed like a sentinel, casting a shadow over the grounds, and to his left ran the crumbling garden wall that encircled the property. The eerie feeling of familiarity returned to him once more, and a chill crept up his spine when his feet led him to the end of the row and around a corner, as if they knew precisely where to go.

Kristoff found himself in an open area in the center of the garden, just behind the house, where the ground was spotted with patches of dirt where the grass refused to grow from years of neglect.

And there, in the center of the garden, sat a woman.

Kristoff had to blink a few times and rub his eyes to be sure he wasn't hallucinating; she was sitting with her back to him, dressed in a high-collared, burgundy dress, and her auburn hair was pulled up, the loose curls of which trailed down her back like a waterfall. Set before her on an easel was a canvas, upon which she was laying down oils in vibrant shades of red, yellow, and green with a horsehair brush, the handle balanced delicately between her pale, slender fingers as she worked. She seemed wholly unaware of his presence, standing just a couple of meters behind her.

"Excuse me," Kristoff started by way of greeting, his voice cracking on the last syllable.

The woman jumped at the sound of his voice, spinning in her seat to look at him with fearful eyes, her terrified gaze locking on him. The tin of spirits in her lap spilled to the ground, creating a damp spot on the otherwise barren earth.

In the moment of silence that followed when their eyes met, time seemed to stand still. Even the stormy wind ceased its incessant howling and Kristoff's breath caught in his throat upon seeing her face; she was beautiful, and young, with freckled cheeks, the rosy blush of which gave her striking color against the backdrop of the brown garden and gray sky. Her lips, like two pink petals, parted slightly in surprise. Her eyes were bright blue, like beryl, and flanked by dark, thick lashes; they captivated Kristoff as they focused on him.

But perhaps the thing that caught Kristoff off-guard the most was that she looked _familiar_. As a former stray who didn't remember much of his life before being scooped from the streets by the Bjorgmans, the fact that any one person could seem familiar to him was an incredibly shocking revelation that shook him to his core. He swore he would have remembered a face as beautiful as hers, but when he tried to remember, his mind only conjured up the same vision from before; a young girl, with red-gold hair and a butter-yellow dress, painting in a garden.

 _Surely this couldn't be..._

"Who are you?" Her voice trembled with trepidation.

Kristoff dared a step forward, willing his voice to be steady when he spoke again. "I'm sorry if I startled you, Miss. I work for Mr. Bjorgman, I came to deliver your groceries."

The young woman's shoulders relaxed slightly, but her fists remained clenched. She appeared ready to flee at any moment.

"Why are you back here?" she asked. "Did you come from over the wall?"

Kristoff shook his head. "No, I used the gate."

"It's locked."

"It wasn't when I arrived."

"Oh."

A worrisome expression crossed her features and she bit her lip, pulling it between her white teeth as she brought a knuckle up to rest against her chin, implying that the state of the unlocked gate was a concerning new development for her. It was a simple gesture, but one that caused Kristoff's heart to beat in a quickened way that he had never experienced before.

"It's rusted out," Kristoff explained, moving closer. "If you'd like, I could come back with some tools and take a look at it–"

He took another step towards her and the girl leapt to her feet like a frightened cat, backing away from him. She was shorter than Kristoff, and much more petite. With her body no longer barring the unfinished painting from his view, he could see that she had been painting a landscape of colorful flowers in bloom.

 _A girl, with red-gold hair, sitting in a garden, painting the blossoms..._

"No, no," she insisted, throwing her hands up in front of herself. "That's alright. You needn't do anything."

"It's really no trouble–"

"Please." She glanced over her shoulder. "You need to go."

"I'm sorry if I've intruded–"

The woman's eyes darted back and forth nervously and she clasped her hands to her breast. "Yes, you have, and you should leave. Now."

Kristoff nodded his acquiescence, but he didn't want to leave her presence. Not yet. He needed to know who she was, and why he felt as though he remembered her.

 _Could she have been the girl in the garden?_

"So, you live here?"

Her reply was hesitant. "Yes."

"That's funny," Kristoff chuckled, rubbing the back of his head with a hand. When he glanced back at the young woman, she was giving him a cross look.

"Why is that funny?" she asked, defensively. Kristoff quickly realized his faux pas.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend." He cleared his throat. "I just… I suppose I just always believed that no one lived here."

Her body visibly slackened as the tension left her muscles. "Oh."

And then: "I suppose I can't blame you."

A terse beat passed between them, and Kristoff shuffled awkwardly on his feet.

"That's quite good," he offered to break the silence, gesturing to the painting beside her.

She glanced at the canvas, as though she had forgotten it was there. Her lips pursed and she swallowed, averting her eyes humbly to the ground.

"Thank you." Her voice was tight. "Please, sir, you really must go."

Kristoff nodded again; the last thing he wanted was to make the poor woman uncomfortable. After all, he _had_ intruded onto her property.

"I'll go," he agreed. "But before I go, may I have a name?"

The girl hesitated, watching his face as she thought it over. After a moment, she answered.

"Anna."

 _Anna. The girl in the garden._

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Anna," Kristoff said softly, removing his cap and holding it to his midsection as he bowed slightly. "My name is Kristoff."

When he straightened up, she was staring at his golden hair, now freed from his cap, with an expression of cognizance.

"Have we…" She struggled to say the words, her blue eyes wide. "Have we _met_ before, Kristoff?"

 _So, she felt it, too._

"I believe we have."

"It was here, wasn't it?" Her fingers trembled as she brought the tips of them to her lips. "I remember. I thought it was a dream."

Before Kristoff could respond, a shrill, icy voice cut through the air.

"Anna!"

The young woman gasped at the sound of her name being called, bringing both hands to her face.

"You shouldn't be here," she cried at him. "You _must_ _leave!_ "

She sounded afraid, making Kristoff reluctant to leave, but he knew he had to when the voice shouted again– sharper, harsher.

" _Anna!"_

"Goodbye, Christopher!"

Before he could correct her, Anna snatched up her unfinished canvas, lifted her skirts, and disappeared in the direction of the house, just as the rain began to fall around Kristoff where he stood in the garden, rooted to the spot. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Kristoff remained for only another minute before he left the estate, but Anna's visage stayed with him for _much_ longer, seared behind his eyelids.


	4. Chapter 4

Kristoff was consumed by thoughts of Anna for the remainder of the week. They threatened to drown him in his every waking moment, and more than once he awoke in a cold sweat to the music of her angelic voice whispering in his ear, haunting his sleep.

But he wasn't sure of what it meant.

The stress of Sven's illness didn't help. Kristoff had wanted so badly to tell him about the experience in the garden, but was devastated when he returned home to find that his younger brother's condition had only worsened. Sven slept feverishly through most of the following days, and whenever he was awake, it was only long enough to take a meal and use the chamber pot before he was out cold again. Bulda rarely left his side, but did so when Kristoff insisted that she go to bed and get some rest.

Six days after his sickness had set in, Sven was carted off in a carriage to the hospital in Bath, accompanied by his adoptive father, where he was ensured to receive the best care money could buy. It helped that most of the doctors there had known Bulda's father from his time practicing medicine. Kristoff had patted his brother's damp hair and promised that he'd come to see him as soon as he could, before the carriage lurched to life, leaving the elder Bjorgman son and his sniffling mother behind.

For the first time in his young life, Kristoff was alone to man the family business entirely on his own.

He made his way down the street with his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune from memory as he approached the front door. The morning sun had only just begun to crest over the horizon, and so he relied on the light from the street lamps to find his way, although he was sure he could trace the steps to the shop even in pure darkness after years of taking the same route.

It had been another restless night filled with indecipherable dreams of the young woman in the garden. Yet he was as determined as a devil to put all of his energy into his work, to run the store like a well-oiled machine in his father's absence, and so he forced the thoughts of Anna to the back of his consciousness.

Kristoff pulled the large brass key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Turning the old knob with a click, he allowed the door to swing open, easing into the dark and desolate room. It felt odd to him; normally Cliff would have already been here, barking orders to Kristoff to sweep the floor or stock the shelves. But he was greeted with only silence.

Kristoff removed his hat and coat, hanging them on the rack beside the door to the store room, before pulling his clerk's smock over his head and tying it behind his waist. He went around the shop, lighting the gas lamps as he went, until the entire shop was awash in a golden glow. Outside the window, the purple sky began to burn red, indicating that the sun would soon be up and the day would begin.

It was then, when Kristoff paused in the middle of the shop to figure out what to do next– his hands on his hips as his eyes scanned the room– that he saw it; a folded piece of parchment, on the floor, just inside the front door, as though somebody had slipped it through the gap underneath in the middle of the night.

His heart seemed to freeze and hammer in his chest all at once; he knew before he even picked it up that the note was from the anonymous "E."

Kristoff turned this way and that, glancing about the lifeless shelves nervously, as though the perpetrator of the note may still be hanging around. Shaking his head, he walked over to the note and knelt, scooping it up from the ground with careful fingers. It weighed heavy with the monies inside; slipping them out, Kristoff counted six pounds sterling in total. Pocketing the coins so as not to lose them, he unfolded the paper completely and held it up to the light to begin reading.

 _1 baguette_

 _1 half-wheel of Cheddar cheese_

 _4 back cuts of bacon_

 _6 eggs_

It was the usual grocery list. Nothing seemed amiss or otherwise out of place, despite his encounter with Anna at the estate the previous week. As usual, it was signed with a cursive "E" at the bottom with impeccable penmanship.

Could the mysterious notes be from Anna?

Or could they be from someone else– the voice that had called to Anna the last time they had met?

There was only one way to find out.

Knowing what he had to do, Kristoff gingerly tucked the note into the pocket of his waistcoat before he locked the front door– turning the wooden sign that hung in the window to indicate that Bjorgmans was closed– and set about the shop to gather the necessary items.

–

The manor was just as decrepit and damned as Kristoff remembered when he approached, feeling almost more apprehensive than he had the first time, the eerie feeling returning to his body immediately upon seeing its spires creep into view.

The warm June breeze pulled at his coat as he carried the carefully-stacked packages from the cart up to the door, setting them down upon the stoop to free his hands. Pulling the note he had written from his breast, he gave it a look over one last time; although he had learned to read and write much later in life than most, his penmanship was legible enough.

 _We thank you for your continued patronage. If there is anything else you may need, please do not hesitate to request it._

– _Kristoff Bjorgman, Bjorgmans Warminster Village Shop_

He refolded the note before bending down to tuck it between the pyramid of packages, leaving a corner sticking out so as to be obvious and visible. He straightened and rapped his knuckles on the door once, and– not expecting an answer– turned to step off of the porch and into the grass. Despite his better judgment, he dared a glance back at the house as he walked away from it, and swore he saw a curtain flutter along the edge of a dusty windowpane, as though somebody had been watching him through it.

Perhaps it was Anna.

Or perhaps it was the other mysterious entity that occupied the house.

He knew that he shouldn't, but the urge to see Anna again was too great. Adjusting his cap and shoving his hands in his pockets, he made his way to the side of the house and to the gate, on the chance that he could find Anna painting in the garden again.

Upon arriving to the gate, however, Kristoff found that the lock of the gate had been inexplicably frozen shut with a shiny layer of ice.

–

"Mum," Kristoff started up in the peace of the dining room, save for the occasional tinkle of porcelain or clink of silverware. "What do you know about the Arendelle Estate?"

Bulda stopped mid-chew before swallowing and turning her eyes back down to her dinner plate.

"Why are you asking such silly questions all of a sudden, love?" she scolded, returning her focus to her lamb roast.

"I know that somebody lives there. I've delivered for them."

"Nevermind you that. Eat your supper."

Even in the dim light of the candelabra and the shadows that danced across her face, Kristoff could see that his mother's normally rosy skin had taken on a ghostly pallor from too many sleepless nights spent worrying about Sven. Although Kristoff and his brother weren't Bulda's biological children, she loved them just as much as she would her own– if not more so– and it was taking an obvious toll on her wellbeing as of late.

Regardless, Kristoff swallowed with difficulty and continued speaking. "There was… a _girl._ "

Bulda's eyes snapped up at his statement, her brown eyes wide with surprise. "You saw a girl there?"

Kristoff nodded.

"Perhaps one of the local ladies going for a stroll." Bulda shrugged. "Nothing odd about that."

"She told me that she lived there."

Bulda blinked at him. After a moment of contemplation, his mother heaved a heavy sigh before settling back in her chair, her shoulders drooping from the weight of the words she was about to speak.

"Years ago, the Arendelle Estate belonged to the Baron and Baroness Thynne," she began in a low, wary tone. "It was rumored that they had two daughters. The younger was named Anna, and the elder was called Elsa. But no one in Warminster at the time had ever seen them. At least, no one– except Grand Pabbie."

Kristoff willed her with his eyes to go on. Although he had only known his adoptive grandfather– the town doctor, and one of the best in all of the county of Wiltshire proper– for just shy of a couple years, the former stray had felt incredibly blessed to have known a man as intelligent and wise as he was, if only for such a brief time.

"One evening, in the dead middle of the night, the Baron and Baroness came to your grandfather in a panic. I was there. Baron Thynne was carrying their little girl– Anna– in his arms. She had been stricken with a most curious illness. She was pale– so _pale–_ and cold to the touch, like a corpse. Even her red hair had begun to turn white. It was almost as though the poor thing was being _frozen_ from the inside out."

 _Red hair._ The girl in the garden.

The ice on the gate.

Bulda's lower lip quavered. "And the little Elsa. She stood there, watching the entire time. I'll never forget the look in that little girl's eyes… it was almost… _inhuman_. I'll never forget it."

She brought up a spotted hand and pressed her trembling fingertips to her temple, as though she felt faint at the memory.

"It was almost as though she…" Bulda trailed off, shaking her head.

"Mum, are you alright?"

She waved off her son's concern with her free hand. "I'm fine, love. Don't you worry about me."

Kristoff cast his eyes downward; he couldn't help but to twiddle the hem of his waistcoat between his fingers, although it wasn't proper manners.

"What happened to the Baron and Baroness? Do they still live at the estate?"

"The Baron and Baroness perished in a shipwreck about ten years ago now." Bulda sat up straighter and cleared her throat demurely, regaining her composure like a proper woman. "There was a small funeral. Those who attended claimed that Anna was seen there, although her face was hidden, but Elsa was absent. And after that… they _vanished_. No one's seen or heard from either girl since. Some say they left town. Others say the poor girls killed themselves in their parents' house out of grief, and their ghosts still haunt the grounds. But not too long after the funeral, your father started receiving those orders..."

A visible chill rippled through Bulda's body.

"I've told your father many times that I don't want us any part in it, but he says it's good business." She shook her head. "I cannot stop him, but… there's something unholy about that house. I can feel it in my bones."

"I saw her," Kristoff whispered. "Mum, I _saw_ her. I saw Anna. She's alive."

 _And she's beautiful._

A beat passed between them.

"Well, I suppose she must be," Bulda chortled sadly. "Otherwise why would we be sending food to an empty house every week, hm? That wouldn't make much sense, would it?"

Kristoff could sense the unease in his mother's voice; it seemed that the topic of the Arendelle Estate was not one that she fancied for dinner conversation. It almost made him feel guilty for bringing it up in the first place.

"Now, no more gossip and talk of your father's business at the table," Bulda admonished lovingly, offering her adopted son a reassuring smile from across the table. "Finish eating your supper before it gets cold."

Kristoff nodded his agreement to drop the subject, but his mind began to swim and swirl, filled with more questions than answers.

–

 **A/N: Fun fact– according to my Google research, six 1800-era British pounds would equal about $200 USD today.**


	5. Chapter 5

The store was always closed on Sundays.

Kristoff usually utilized his day off to attend church with his family and relax at home. But without Sven, the house had a solemn air that hung about it, causing Kristoff to want to be anywhere but there. Plus, he couldn't stop thinking of Anna.

It had been nearly two weeks already since he had met her in the garden. He thought of her often in his waking moments, and wondered if she was thinking of him, too. His mother had retired to her chamber shortly after arriving home from Mass for a nap, and so Kristoff stole his chance to go see Anna.

Tucking the heavy parcel he had purchased under his arm, Kristoff marched up the hill to the manor, climbing the steps to the front door and pausing only a moment to steady his breathing before he beat his knuckles against the old wood.

Minutes passed and the door remained closed. Only the wind answered Kristoff as it whistled through the shady alcove of the porch, ruffling his coat.

Trying again, Kristoff knocked once more, louder this time. Still, nobody came to greet him.

When he raised his fist to knock a third, he was stopped by the sound of a bolt turning in a lock. There was a click, and then the door creaked open halfway, slowly, until a familiar freckled face poked out to see who was at the door.

Anna's blue eyes washed over him, trailing upward from his polished shoes to the ascot tie around his neck, landing finally on his face.

"It's you," she breathed upon recognizing him. They locked eyes for a moment, before she blushed and averted her gaze, awkwardly tucking a stray lock of reddish hair behind her ear. She was dressed in a day gown of sage green, with brass buttons up the front, and Kristoff couldn't help but notice that it was less form-fitting than was the style of the time.

"Kristoff," he reminded her politely, removing his hat with a hand and placing it to his breast as he bowed slightly to show his respect. He was caught off-guard seeing Anna herself answer the door, rather than a valet or house servant; a manor as opulent as Arendelle, even in its heavy state of disrepair, would easily be large enough to host a full staff.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, although it wasn't proper. "We– I haven't ordered anything. You shouldn't be here."

Kristoff could barely restrain the joy he felt at being in Anna's presence once again. He felt a warming, beginning in his ribcage, that rippled outward to the tips of his limbs. His face felt hot and he was sure that he was blushing. He supposed that it wasn't proper to have come calling on Sunday to see her without a chaperone, either, but he couldn't find himself regretting the choice to do so.

"I just– I wanted to bring you this."

He held up the wrapped package for her to inspect. She looked at it, then to him, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

"What is it?"

"A gift." Kristoff said with a smile. "For you."

"A gift?" Anna let out a breath like a laugh as she reached her hands hesitantly towards the parcel. The ghost of a smile teased at the corners of her mouth and her blue eyes went soft. "I haven't received a gift since… well, since I was a girl, I suppose."

Kristoff held the package aloft as Anna pulled the twine loose and carefully tore at the paper, peeling away the layers to reveal what was hidden inside. When the last of the wrapping fell away, she gasped.

"Flower seeds?" She ran her fingertips over the tiny paper packet, printed with the words "OAKEN & FAMILY STANDARD SEED SUPPLY" and a colorful watercolor illustration of a floral arrangement on the front.

"And fertilizer," Kristoff clarified, nudging his chin towards the burlap sack upon which the seed packet sat; he had saved his own pennies to be able to purchase only the best for her. "So that you can begin to regrow those flowers that you were painting in the garden. You'll no longer need to paint them from memory. Not anymore."

At his words, Anna's expression seemed to sink, darkening until she began to shake her head anxiously, jerking her hands away from the items in Kristoff's arms as though they were on fire.

"No," she whispered.

Kristoff felt his own face fall in turn. "No?"

"No, I cannot," she murmured, not looking at him. "I cannot accept this. It's very sweet, but– I'm sorry."

"I'll help you plant them," Kristoff insisted, taking a step forward. Anna leapt back.

"I can't. If she sees them and finds out that I–"

"If who finds out?" Kristoff's interest was piqued. He hurriedly set the package in his arms down and to the side of the porch to free his hands. "Do you have a sister? Does she live here with you?"

He reached towards her, feeling the need to comfort her, but Anna shirked from his touch.

"Please," she begged, fear creeping into her voice, taking another step away from him and into the house. "You must go."

"So, you _don't_ live here alone?" Kristoff pressed. "Your sister, she's the one who writes the notes every week?"

At the last word, Anna's head snapped up, as though remembering something important. Fumbling quickly, she reached into her sleeve and pulled out a slip of parchment.

"Here." She pressed the folded paper against his open palm. Briefly, her slender fingers brushed his wrist and Kristoff inadvertently shivered at the sensation. Her touch was soft and delicate, like a butterfly's kiss. "But you _must_ go, Kristoff. Believe me."

Before he could ask her what she had handed him, Anna shut the door and was gone. Heart sinking into the pit of his stomach, Kristoff mumbled a curse; as much as he had wanted to see Anna again, the last thing he had wanted was to cause her distress. But something was not right about her situation, and it only caused him to want to see her more, to find out why she lived in such fear of things as normal as having visitors and going outside.

Remembering the parchment in his hand, he unfolded it and looked it over; it was the same note he had left during his previous delivery. Anna had kept it.

Upon turning it over, however, Kristoff could see the words "Thank You" scribbled on the back in neat, flowery cursive, as though she had meant to give the note back to him all along.

But what struck him was that the penmanship on the paper before was vastly different than those of the notes left by "E," giving him solid proof that Anna and "E" couldn't possibly be the same person.


End file.
